Reflection
by TheValencia
Summary: When Ianto is sent home for the night, the walls of his apartment begin to close.  Can Ianto hang on long enough for Jack to fight through the rift to save him?
1. Sleep Tonight

Ianto seemed to have an inept way of dealing with death. There was foam, a deep rooted bed of misunderstanding over the issue that he usually saw slip back into Jack's waxy eyes moments after collapsing onto the floor. It was with a heavy breath and a fierce protection of his brief dwelling in nowhere land that the Captain awoke, head awkwardly cradled in the unsure hands of his tentative companion.

"Another nap, sir? That's only the fifth time this week." Jack gave a devil's smile and hopped up, snapping his neck with a quick twitch.

"Well, it's not my favorite approach to questioning a suspect, Ianto, but it happens. Find out anything?" The manila folder Gwen put together on Jackson Settler was given an even tap by Ianto before laying it sarcastically into Jack's hands.

"Turns out we're out of our jurisdiction, oh Captain. Settler is an average murderer."

"So…no aliens? No ghosts, unexplained disease, fairies, Graham Norton? Just normal, average human death?" Ianto nodded plainly. Jack huffed, "What a waste."

Sprinting up the stairs of the HUB, Jack made his way towards the transparent walls of his office, which was more than one could say about him. Walking in, he propped his leather booted feet on the littered remains of his desk. Ianto, taking the seat directly across from him, placed his spine properly straight and set his chin slanting downwards, like a scolded child. Jack played with his fingers, netting them into a ball which he placed on top of his chest. He eyed Ianto suspiciously, to which Ianto only responded with a concerned eye.

"So…how did Settler kill me, out of sheer curiosity?"

"You don't remember, sir?"

"Ianto, you've seen my penis, you can stop calling me sir." Ianto was taken aback, but found solace in smile creeping up the corner of Jack's lips.

"Well, he hit you…over the head…with a Weevil skull." Jack's inner laugh died with a slack jaw stare.

"How-"

"Blunt force trauma, I suspect? I'm not really a doctor, just a suggestion," said Ianto. It had been a few months since the world "doctor" had not induced a complete state of depression or caused Owen's bleak outcome to come crawling inside their minds. While Gwen still held her own private ceremony for the passing of their two colleagues, Jack and Ianto and preoccupied themselves with the more complicated procedure of naming their many nights spent together. Snapping back to the issue at hand, Jack puffed his cheeks into a sodden sigh.

"Weevil skull…how lame. So what happened to Settler?"

"Gwen arrested him, took him to the police station. She's still there by the way, if you were curious or anything. Will be for some time." Ianto gave Jack his sexiest look, which in and of itself looked more like a precocious thirteen year old boy. Jack adored that innocence, and also despised it for making Ianto Jones a fragile item. It was with that mentality that Jack winked Ianto's offer away and proceeded to change shirts.

"You know, Ianto, it says a lot about the 21st century, what I assume we will now call the Settler Murders. Fifteen little girls, flayed open and skinned alive, unimaginable to the world as anything human; and then a nobody, another face in a crowd named Jackson comes forward and reveals his big secret. I guess just goes to show that not all monsters are complete strangers to this planet." Ianto stared darkly at the floor, waiting for Jack to wrap up another case with a flourished finish only to never be mentioned again. Clearing his throat, he stood up to leave.

"Well, Jack…I guess I'll be heading out for the day. Do you need anything else from me?" Jack studied a glass he produced from a file cabinet while pouring himself a sip of bourbon.

"Not tonight, Ianto," he paused giving his ready to please mate time to get over dissapointment, "But it doesn't mean I don't want to…just not tonight, hm?" Ianto nodded with a dutiful bow and retreated down the steps of the office and out towards the main control room.

Once gone, Jack rubbed his temple, still feeling the ache of a leftover skull fracture begging to be healed. He thought of waking up in Ianto's unsure hands, his marionette legs folded like tree roots to support his bleeding head. He wasn't for sure if he had loved anyone in quite a long time, much less pondered relationships. Marriages had come and gone for him, men and women and those in between revolved around his sexual identity. He had often wished he could be like The Doctor, keeping companions and dropping them off generation after generation. And then he thought, if The Doctor felt anything close to heartbreak then it came by recycling women to follow him inside dangerous holes of time. Perhaps there was no easy solution to Ianto Jones, only allowing the young man to feel whatever he wanted to and then wait for old age or destruction to claim him.

Ianto folded his coat over his arm, deciding the air outside the Stadium was warm enough to need no further protection. The heels of his shoes clicked slightly against the pavement with sturdy tides of motion. He thought he felt someone peering over his neck, breathing slowly down the cotton of his vest, but it left him before he could decide. The walk home was dreary, knowing he was not needed for tonight. It was becoming harder for him to rest inside his apartment, feeling bitter and sore from the pale wallpaper. Feeling too tired (or simply lonely) he hailed a cab to carry him the rest of the way there.

_More to come if wanted, the plot being set up in the next chapter. This is basically a set up to what's going on. Enjoy? No? Please review _


	2. Strangers

Opening the door to his posh flat, Ianto dropped his belongings into a deserted heap by the door, gently swiping a hand through his rain peppered hair. It was barely sprinkling outside his landscape windows, just enough for him to feel the little lightening pricks of cold dew on his neck when exiting the cab. Now inside, the Soho inspired décor seemed cucumber chill, begging for some type of dark jazzy music to be played over the walls. Walking into the small kitchen, he flicked the light switch on its nose, warming the cool blue paper that completely covered his home.

The tea kettle still held water from the other night. Taking the top of, he noticed the sweat from a long ago steam rolling down the sides of the lid. He made that particular pot the night Jack was hit by a smug bus driver with a Cockney accent. He had convinced the often stubborn with a pinch of rude Jack to come home with him that night. They shared cups of English Black, no cream little sugar, and went to bed with an exhausted happiness lying between them. Ianto remembered feeling awkward knowing Jack was still beside him, eyes wide open with no need for sleep. He wanted to stay awake with him, listen to the sounds of night that Jack knew as forever. Instead, Ianto shrugged the covers off of his hips, allowing Jack's bare pelvis to gently cradle the lower of his back.

Deciding he wanted something heavier to put him to sleep, Ianto rinsed the kettle out only to put it under the sink for safe keeping. From there, he waltzed into the living room, much more assure of himself than at work and popped the door above his television open. There, lined in revolving Tiffany glass was his liquor collection, to which he chose a bottle of Merlot. Not bothering with etiquette or poise that surrounded his features, he twisted the cork off between his knees and slumped down into a chair near his long rectangle living room window.

The various clocks in his home ticked away, loudly and assuredly. Ianto swigged the wine, his lips puckering as they released themselves from the neck of the bottle. He attempted to sort through average concerns people should have: his bills (to which had been paid up for the next three months,) his sister's birthday which he neglected again, the letter he had meant for almost a year now to write to Lisa's parents. He could have it all done in a matter of minutes, but chose not to react. Instead, he focused on a loose button wandering in the sheen of his wood floors. It was a stylistic, antique styled…Jack's, from his ever starched blue, forty's era fashion, and now haunting Ianto's eyes, searching for its owner.

Wobbling slightly, Ianto peeled off his vest and tie, looking much like the bachelor he wished he could be. Threading loose his belt, he felt the snap it made as the black leather whipped out of the loops. He removed his pants, folded his shirt and practically ran for his bed. Once there, he abandoned his drink, tucking the wine underneath the bedside table so as to not knock it over in a slumbered fight. The duvet that lined his sheets, although soft, was not warm. He felt like an icicle, waiting for a puff of hot breath to break him into. His eyes felt weighted, and the lids soon fell under pressure. He was sinking into a brothel of rest, an entire holiday of easy sleep when he felt something.

Underneath the covers, with the same familiarity and unsettling intimacy, he felt a breath move down his neck, resting in the crater of his chest. His fingers would not conduct their command to move, to scratch away the intruder. He felt the heat move lower, stopping just above his waist. His eyes still closed, he managed to place a hand protectively over his belly button. The breath then became a whisper, and the whisper grew into a moan.

"Ianto..." was all it said. Ianto, however, placed this voice into a dream, unaware that he was alone no longer. His house would soon be filled with strangers.

Jack finished his drink, folded up the various pictures he stared at for the past one hundred years into their crinkled yellow albums. Now recovered completely, he regretted sending Ianto home. Feeling less haunted, Jack scrambled underneath his undisturbed cot to find a small key neatly wrapped to a note card with double sided tape. Surely Ianto, as his long ago invite mentioned, would not mind a late night visitor. Tucking the tail of his shirt back into his suspenders, he grabbed his greatcoat and headed out from underneath the earth into the breached air of Cardiff. The rain, by now, had changed from a light mist to a decent pour, causing the Captain's collar to be pulled up in a Marlon Brando edge. The wind, he noticed, was strangely still, and yet he felt as if he was swept inside a dusty breeze. Shrugging off these details, he hoped to find Ianto awake and partially drunk.

_Simple enough for now, strangers in the house, Ianto asleep, and Jack walking into the middle of the storm. Still interested? Hope so! Leave reviews._


	3. Steps

When he awoke, it was still dark. There was no movement, no sound, no texture to anything around him. Ianto sat up, rubbing the claustrophobia out of the back of his neck. He felt like he was tied up inside a trash bag, the various grooves of the plastic either caving in or sticking up in a strange, cathedral fashion. Attempting to settle onto his feet, Ianto could barely control the calve muscles of his legs. They were a certain kind of numb, the pressure of avoiding the sharp crushes of glass into the tired tissue too much for him to take. He fell back into the bed, arms spread as if waiting for the nails to finish the crucifixion. His head was a disco tech, the fist of an unwanted speaker jamming its way into his ear. He imagined all of the sexy girls sliding their hips all around the grooves of his brain, the men standing aside looking flat and sculpted. A twinge of disastrous pain hit his left hemisphere as Ianto saw one of the young ladies stab her spiked heel into his pink thoughts.

"Ianto." He immediately dropped his masochistic imagery. There was the voice he fought with all through his slumber. It was light, frothy and teasing. He wanted it.

"Ianto…Jones, please wake up." Without hesitation he sat at the edge of his bed. He felt perplexed.

"Ianto…Jones...look at me." The room was empty; the only light buzzing came from the red neon numbers of his clock.

"I can't see you," He replied with pseudo confidence.

"Come…here….this…way…" The door to his bedroom was opened, a childish ball of string slowly unraveling itself ended at Ianto's left toes, itching his skin. Picking it up, he felt a gentle tug on the other end. The part of him Torchwood has instilled, that Jack had insisted on making a priority at every scene, the curious fear that drove him onwards completely assembled itself and took over Ianto's uncertainty.

Before he could even begin to push himself up, his legs burned with a reminder of their extreme discomfort. He felt useless.

"I, well I can't walk. My legs are a bit tired, see. Can…can you come here?" Without finishing his pleading phrase, the locks on his legs were released. His fingers traced the muscle in each sheathed leg, somehow seeming larger than he remembered. He stood tall, string in hand, eyes now adjusted to feline capability in the dark.

"Walk…now…Ianto…Jones…come…here…" Twine in hand, he wound the slack around his wrist and made his way towards a blacked out living room. The first discrepancy that caught his eye was the absence of a rather large rectangular window in his living room. It was as if someone blocked the entire room off with, as he touched it, construction paper. He felt a stranger exhale on the back of his neck, making the entire room like a melting pot. Ianto tried to expand his lungs, even yawning couldn't release his collapsed throat to ingest a little air.

"Ianto…Jones…here…I…am." Ianto was on a carousel, revolving too quickly to catch a true image, relying on black and grey blurs to make sense.

"I can't see you! I-I can't breathe! Please, help me!" He begged into the darkness. His knees buckled, knocking him into prayer position. Before he could vomit up the empty contents of his stomach, the rest of his body waved a white flag. His torso fell forwards, like a small tree in a large forest, barely making a sound. His migraine returned with a vendetta, his nose became a red river, the blood dropping into petite circles to the floor.

"Ianto…Jones…play…nicely." Shivers swept through that statement, realizing the stranger controlled the atmosphere. He first thought of small things; the metallic smell of the HUB, the evanescent perfume of Lisa, watching his father roll the sleeves of jackets before pinning them to a proper length. Then, he focused on circumstance; Jack would find him, or more likely send Gwen to fetch an explanation for being late. Either one would see him kneeling, execution style, eyes half closed, an elegant perfect sphere shaped pool of blood caking to the wood. Gwen would try to save him. Jack would know it was too late…

Then, the pain stopped. Everything, again, stopped. Ianto at first thought he'd die, but something in him didn't feel the panic, the solitude Jack so many times awoke with. Was he at peace? Heaven? Ghost? No, home. Suddenly, every light in the apartment burst into glow. There wasn't a corner left without illumination, and Ianto smiled. For some reason, he chose this moment to think of Christmas.

"Ianto Jones, look at me." The voice, no longer broken, and no longer faceless, sat in a nook beside his book shelf. The miles of legs, the tantric black hair bent over his sweating face. A white Persian smile, desert colored skin, shamrock green eyes all inspired him to get up. Wiping his mouth, Ianto noticed the bloodied nose left no trail behind.

"Ianto Jones, do you like me?" The velvet in her voice made him want to beg her. Ianto's head nodded yes, still uncertain of what had happened.

"Ianto Jones, will you play with me?" Of course, he said yes.

"Good, because we have lots and lots to do tonight." Ianto gleamed and forgot everything he knew about…

Jack rustled himself up the steps to Ianto's flat. Without losing too much breath, feeling rather randy, he took them three at a time. When he reached the hall that held the doorway he'd only been through a few times before, the confusion was startling.

An entire hallway, swallowed up by mustard colored paint, held no doors. Jack knew where Ianto's should be, first door to the right. Placing a hand on each side of the corridor, Jack trailed down, hoping to feel some ridge, some bump of life through the plaster. When he found nothing, he stood at what should have been Ianto's entrance. The texture was as if caulk had smeared the entire opening. Jack pressed his ear against the emptiness, hearing nothing.

"Ianto! IANTO! It's Jack, are you in there?" He tried dialing Ianto's cell, only to be swiftly escorted to voicemail. A small white-haired woman, clutching an even smaller Yorkie dog came up behind Jack.

"Young man, we can hear your screaming all the way up the staircase! Would you please explain what you are looking for?" Jack turned and gave an impish smile.

"My apologies, Ma'am. I was actually just looking for a friend, do you…do you remember a door being here for, oh, let's says, the last 21 months?" The woman gave him a cold look.

"If you think you're being clever, I suggest you stop. Please leave, or I will be forced to call upon the authorities." Her aristocratic manner held firm, a saggy neck raised up in indignation. Jack gave one last look at the unchanging wall, and slipped past his accuser with a flirty gaze.

Once back in the car, Jack peered up to find Ianto's window in place, heavy drapes blocking out any vision. Was there a light on? He dialed Gwen.

"Jack…Christ bloody Jesus, it's four in the morning! What disaster can't you have taken care of yourself?"

"Gwen, Ianto's trapped." Gwen, nearly knocking Rhys out of bed, reached to turn on the light.

"Missing, Jack…where do we find him?" Jack sighed and pinched his nose.

"Hopefully, in his flat."


End file.
